


walk to the top of the big night sky

by politelydeclined



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, I Know JonMartin Is A Slow Burn Already But What If It Was Slower?, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Other: See Story Notes, Pining, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29024196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politelydeclined/pseuds/politelydeclined
Summary: The car ride was silent, and the quiet was eating away at him.Martin had insisted on driving, and he hadn't looked at him the entire time.But it was only fair. After all, he was a monster, and Martin had already met too many of those.It was fair. He could do this.Couldn't he?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 135
Kudos: 237





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fizisthename](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizisthename/gifts).



> Here I come with another JonMartin and this time I made it angstier. As a treat.  
> title from: first love / late spring by mitski (self call-out for being a depressed bastard)  
> Content Warnings: Self-hate, Isolation, Implied Child Neglect (I wasn't sure if it counted but better safe than sorry)

Martin had insisted on driving.

They had rented a battered old car in Leeds after they’d gotten out of the train, a wreck with flaking blue paint that still didn’t quite manage to hide the alarming amount of rust. It gave a tired  _ huff _ every couple of minutes, especially when they got a tad too bold and tried to press down on the gas pedal.

It was all they had been able to afford with what little cash they had after the tickets, and Jon couldn’t quite find it within himself to complain about squeaking seats, or crackling radio, or even the broken air conditioning system.

He’d offered to drive, hoping to let Martin get some rest, but it was no secret that his driving skills had been kindly described as non-existent on more than one occasion, so Martin insisted on driving and Jon found himself nervously ripping out loose padding from a tear on the side of his seat, the repetitive action grounding his still-shaking legs.

He hadn’t stopped trembling since he stepped out of the Lonely, clutching Martin’s hand tightly in his own as if he could otherwise slip away and back into what was Peter Lukas’ domain.

On the three hours ride from London to Leeds, they had slept soundly, Jon’s head falling onto Martin’s shoulder, and their hands had not let go of each other until the metallic voice of the speakers woke them up.

They hadn’t spoken much, exchanging charged looks as they put their poorly stocked backpacks into the boot, and the car ride had been filled with awkward silence, music breaking up every time they entered a tunnel and picking back up as they exited, each time shyer.

The weight of Martin’s eyes, fixed straight ahead on the road nagged at him, and the tight grip he had on the steering wheel made Jon wince in sympathy.

But Martin had insisted on driving, and Jon had agreed.

He stared out of the window with a pensive sigh, trying to focus on the view running past them, fields after fields after fields seemingly jumping right out of the way as they moved, trees bending out of shape when they picked up speed.

His grandmother had always had a certain disdain for driving, only doing so when there was no other possible solution: he remembered how they would rely on public transportation most of the time, and how he’d been the first of his class to be allowed on a bus without any adults.

He remembered looking up to a stern face, ticket tight in his small hand and shoved deep into his pocket as he was reminded to  _ be careful _ and avoid  _ making a fuss _ .

_ “Don’t get in trouble, Jonathan.” _

To this day, it’s the sentence he has heard more often from the woman. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t make a fuss. 

He grew up to be quiet and independent, something he should only be grateful for - her words, not his - and utterly unable to drive a car without providing at least one near-death experience to the traumatised citizens of Bournemouth.

Once he’d moved out, he had rarely needed a car: both Oxford and London had perfectly adequate public transportation, and back in the day Georgie had enjoyed driving much more than he did. His one duty was to pick the music, trying to somehow appease his own  _ eclectic _ taste with Georgie’s newest obsession.

He still had nightmares about her Moldovan folk phase.

He gave a glance to his side, trying to not alert Martin. His lips were pressed tight as he nervously scratched his beard, hair closer to grey than it had been- before. Even his eyes seemed duller, and Jon felt his heart swell in his chest, hand itching to reach out and touch. 

Part of him wanted to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, make sure Martin was there and he was okay and the Lonely hadn’t stolen him.

The other part had waited to reach out since he’d been presented with a jar of ashes and a small smile.

_ I really loved you, you know. _

He did now.

Had probably known back then as well – surely he’d realised as he got ready for the Unknowing, and even then, he’d been aware that his own annoyance at Martin had been slowly giving way to fondness for months.

There were only so many times he could replay the ghost conversation before he had to admit to himself that there was something else going on.

He’d known, about Martin and about himself, and he’d done nothing.

At first, his paranoia had been far too strong for him to even  _ talk _ to Martin without assuming he was hiding a knife behind his back. Then it had all been such a rush, what with the rituals and his own transformations… he’d assumed they would have time later, when things were not as chaotic. He remembered leaving for Yarmouth, spending most of the ride wishing he’d parted with more than that fumbling half-hug he’d given Martin before getting on the road.

He remembered hoping he’d make it out alive, and hoping he’d die saving the world. Hoping he’d be able to run back to Martin, confessing everything and letting himself be held for once, hoping he’d never make it out of the bloody museum, never again to be kidnapped or hurt or scarred.

He remembered waking up six months later, after dying.

_ The perfect compromise _ , he had thought.  _ The Universe definitely has some sense of humour _ .

He remembered waking up a monster, and he remembered waking up alone.

Martin wasn’t there any more, and it was only fair.

After all, he’d never been there either, too busy lying to his friends and running away and thinking he’d have plenty of time  _ later _ .

It was only fair that Martin would have moved on after six months. After grieving.

Blinking back tears, Jon tried desperately to bite down on the awful pressure building in his chest, willing the lump in his throat away. He couldn’t cry now, couldn’t make it all about himself again. 

No, he’d cry in a dignified manner. He’d let himself sob in the shower once they arrived at the safe-house Basira had talked about.

It had been less than five hours since they’d left London, and he’d been repressing his own feelings for his entire life. He wasn’t going to stop now.

The landscape kept sprinting outside his window, and Martin cleared his throat.

“I think there’s a service station in a couple of miles. We should get something, I’m still groggy from the train and there’s still a while until we get there.”

His eyes hadn’t left the road for a second, and Jon fumbled with the seat padding.

“Sure,” he said, his voice soft beyond recognition. “I could do with some food too.”

A nod.

He’d had less tense conversations with some of his kidnappers.

He opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what to say. Three words threatened to leave his lips, and he immediately turned back to the window.

_ I really loved you, you know. _

Jon was far too well-acquainted with past tenses, and God knew he wouldn’t be able to bear further confirmations that  _ that _ was all he would ever get. A past tense of something that could have been, if he’d acted sooner, if he’d behaved better. If he’d been braver.

This time, careful to hide his face, he let some tears fall.

“Don’t get the tea.”

Martin broke the silence, making Jon jump in his seat, hastily rubbing his face with his sleeve.

“What?” He managed to croak.

“I said,” Martin was still not looking at him, but his shoulders had relaxed a bit. “Don’t get the tea. The stuff they give you in those places is barely edible, better get something in a bottle. Or coffee.”

“I don’t like coffee,” Jon replied, tone light. His hand moved to the radio, lowering the volume, then fell in the space between them. Casual enough to look natural, but still  _ there _ in case Martin wanted to-

Martin didn’t move.

“Right.”

He’d never thought that the idea of letting a conversation die would make something in him physically ache, and yet here he was, scrambling furiously for something to say.

“I take it you’ve been hurt by sub-par station tea one too many times?” He gave a hint of a smile, which only widened as Martin replied with a small smile of his own.

“You could say that. Back when my mom was in the hospital, I would go visit once a month, once every two if she got in a mood. It was a two-hour drive, and I can assure you, you only make the tea mistake  _ once _ .”

He nodded.

“Oh look, I think it’s over there.” Martin pointed in front of them, where the station was beginning to peek out. “Thank God, I need the loo.”

Jon studied his reflection for a moment, taking in his appearance. If he’d been handsome like Tim, he could have pulled off the distressed-kidnapping-victim look, but as it was, he simply looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept for a month.

Which was not as far from the truth as he would have liked.

Carding his fingers through the loose braid he’d meant to fix for days, he tried to work with what he had, tying his long hair into a neater plait.

Georgie had always playfully accused him of being secretly vain, to which he would reply something along the lines of “Piss off.”

They started slowing down, and as he unfastened his seatbelt, a button came loose from his shirt.

“I give up,” he muttered.

Martin snorted.

“It’s not like I’m much better, you know. We’ll be lucky if they don’t call the cops on us, we look like-”

“Like hell?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get to the safehouse, and it doesn't get easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say this in the first chapter, but so far i think updates will be every two days!  
> Also shout-out to [this](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/75elWQbiQLltdVCBdbAKPv?si=86XDGavvSWKyZDZig9FS0Q) playlist that always sets the right mood for this story haha  
> Content Warnings: Self-hate, Blood (mentioned, not present in this chapter)

The rest of the ride went by much faster, albeit the tense silence never truly left the car. Jon munched on some crisps he had insisted on getting - submitting himself to a chuckling  _ “Wotsits, really?” _ , to which he could only reply with a very clever  _ “I like them!” _ .

He wanted to tell Martin about the afternoons he used to spend outside as a kid, hiding in some small shop by the beach as he read, the sound of the potato chips and pages turning his only company. He wanted to tell him about the lady who’d wink at him and let him pay half the price for the snack, saying he always looked so skinny, and he wanted to tell him about every scraped knee and about the one time he almost set fire to his bed after his grandmother had taken away his torch - turns out, candles and sheets don’t do well together - and he wanted to tell him all the things he’d never cared to tell anyone else.

Instead, he made sure to leave his hand in the space between them as he looked out at the darkening sky.

“So, do you reckon we’ll have to clean blood off the walls?” Martin said as they began to pull up, the cottage Basira had told them about finally visible.

Jon chuckled half-heartedly.

“I want to say no, but I’m not completely sure- I think you can leave it like this, it’s not like it’s gonna bother anyone.”

Martin turned off the car, fumbling with the keys and handing them to Jon.

“I’ll get the bags,” he said, opening the boot and taking out some of the groceries they’d bought. It was mostly junk food - can’t really expect a fresh vegetable section in a shoddy station, after all - but it’d make do until they got themselves together enough to venture in the village nearby for a proper round of shopping.

Jon struggled to find the keyhole in the door, and as he finally pushed it open with an ominous  _ creak _ , he found himself sighing with relief.

No blood on the walls, no decomposing bodies anywhere near the furniture, and what looked like a lovely view on the highlands from the window in the living room.

The lights flickered on and off for a moment, the light-bulb hiccuping back to life, and as he set his backpack on a chair, Jon couldn’t help but let out a soft  _ Thank God _ .

He wasn’t even sure why he was so grateful - perhaps for what appeared to be the first promise of rest he’d had in the last years. Hiding in a Scottish cottage with the man he loved definitely sounded better than acting as the entities’ favourite toy, getting thrown between avatars like a ball.

He spied a pile of boxes in the corner of the living room, but he promptly forgot about it when Martin walked into the kitchen, shoulders slumping as he relaxed too. There was still an edge of  _ something _ to him, like he couldn’t fully let go of the tension, but Jon was willing to blame it on the Lonely. 

He chased away the stray thought of  _ it’s because he’s stuck with you. _

“I can fix the groceries,” he said, gesturing to the bags on the table. “You can- make sure there are no corpses around the place?”

“Mh,” Martin replied. “Sounds good. I’ll shout and pass out if I see anything bad.”

Sending him off with a small smile - cautious and faint - Jon began to open the cabinets, making sure there was at least some basic cutlery and flatware around, perhaps a couple of pots so they wouldn’t have to buy those too. 

He’d always liked cooking, and he knew for a fact that Daisy had liked his cooking as well, looking at his  _ Rajma Masala _ with nothing but pure love in her eyes. Although she’d never admit it without a good few pints in her system, as he’d had the pleasure to find out.

“All clear!” Martin called out from the other side of the house. “But-”

His head peeked out from the door-frame, his expression as unreadable as it had been in the car.

“I think there’s only one bed.”

Jon tensed immediately at his tone. He’d said ‘one bed’ like he could have said ‘Jane Prentiss’ beloved worms’ and he did  _ not _ want to think about it, could not bear the implications of that.

“I can take the sofa,” he said in a small voice, turning around so his face was hidden. “It’s no problem at all.”

“I can’t possibly-”

“It’s alright Martin, I’m used to the cot in the Archives and I reckon that couch is far more comfortable.”

“Oh.” Martin gave him a tired smile, and wasn’t that just  _ perfect _ , the way his heart tightened. “Well then. Thanks.”

They took turns using the bathroom - they were far too tired for a shower, but after the long ride, they both needed to freshen up - and went to bed exchanging stiff smiles. Jon’s knees were shaking with tension.

He tossed and turned as much as he could in the small space, feeling at once happy to have taken the couch - Martin’s legs would have cramped up in a matter of minutes otherwise - and absolutely forlorn.

He knew, he had  _ known _ and he had spent most of his day coming to terms with the fact that whatever he could have hoped to have with Martin was now gone, and all he could wish for was a professional relationship, a feeble friendship at best. It was right, it was  _ fair _ and it was terrible. Having to suffocate a sob before it left his chest, he turned to face the window, the sky far too dark for him to see anything beyond the fence surrounding Daisy’s place any more.

It was alright. He could do this, he could respect Martin’s wishes and be his most pleasant self.

The least he could do was not make their stay in the cottage a living nightmare for him as well.

With a quick glance to the door he ensured it was properly closed, and finally let the awful pressure in his chest carry out in a whimper, tears welling up in his eyes as he let go.

It was an unpleasant deal - God knew he hated crying and all the snivelling that came with it, hated the bone-deep exhaustion that followed afterwards, the childish need to have something hold him tight until the only pressure he could feel was that of arms around him, shielding the world from all the ugliness he contained.

Back in the day, it had been  _ him _ the one getting shielded.

He’d lost that privilege when he let himself become this terrible caricature of a man, feasting on others’ terror and driving all that was good in his life away.

He cried for Sasha, stolen away without anyone noticing.

He cried for Tim, who had gladly let himself be taken so he wouldn’t have to face Jon again.

He cried for Daisy and Melanie and Basira, cried for Georgie and as much as he wanted, he didn’t cry for himself, didn’t allow Jonathan Sims to mourn all that had been taken from him with deceit and manipulation and rough, careless hands.

He cried for Martin the most. Cried for a strong man who had been hurt far too much, cried for the kind man who had never let himself be fooled by his prickly exterior, reading the insecurity and fear between the lines of his brow.

He cried for the lost chances, and for all the wasted time.

He cried, and as his back was quaked by pitiful whimpers, he surrendered himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* At this point I don't even have to say that it's big Projecting Onto Jon hours, do I?
> 
> P.S. As usual, I'm a sucker for comments!


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favourite chapter that I've written so far, I hope you enjoy it!  
> By the way, I know I haven't replied to every single comment, but I promise that I've read them all (multiple times) and they absolutely made my day! So uh, thanks to every one who took a moment of their time to make a random guy on Ao3 happy :))  
> Content Warnings: Self-loathing (which will be tagged throughout the fic and it's one of the main themes, so tread carefully), Anxiety

Morning crept up to him quietly, a lone ray of sunshine tickling his face as he shook the drowsiness away. His face felt swollen, as it was wont to do after a night of dignified bawling, and he knew he’d have to go wash up if he didn’t want to be obvious about his nighttime activities. Even if his muscles ached and protested, it just wouldn’t do to have Martin walk in on him looking like a little kid who’d gotten their toy taken away.

Walking up to the kitchen sink, freckled with rust and chipped paint, he stretched his arms over his head, relishing the tranquillity that came with loosening his cramped muscles.

After all, being used to the Archives cot didn’t exactly make the sofa a five-star bed.

He stared at the freezing water for a while, taking in the way the high pressure made it come out of the faucet with an ominous hiss, white and foamy. Making a mental note to check the pipes later, Jon rubbed his eyes, giving soft slaps to his cheeks to colour them. 

It was little over six in the morning, he was aware, but he blamed his early rising on the fact that they’d turned in rather early the previous night. Besides, it had been so long since he’d last gotten a full night of rest that he was not going to start whining about it like some cranky old man.

“‘Morning.”

A tired grumble startled him, and he immediately turned his head, finding himself face to face with a still half-asleep Martin. He had pillow lines across his face, and Jon could see how one side was redder than the other. His mind went back to those hectic days in the Archives, where he’d greet a recently woken up Martin just as he finished his night of extra work, paranoia and senseless investigations. 

He’d been softer, back then. The line of his lips was now tense, as if he was scared of letting himself speak freely.

“Oh- it’s you, I- You gave me quite a scare,” he chuckled, trying to chase the thought away and focusing on the tip of Martin’s nose, not quite able to meet his gaze. “Good morning.”

He nodded in reply, sticky eyes looking around the room.

“Should I put the kettle on?” He asked, opening the curtains to let more light in.

Jon rummaged through the cabinets, emerging with a pot in hand, rubbing at his head self-consciously.

“Ah, I- I’m afraid Daisy didn’t care much for kettles, this will have to make do.”

He felt a bit of shame, though at least in  _ this _ he was completely blameless - could he really be at fault for Daisy’s own kitchenware preferences?

Perhaps he was too tired to care - or maybe didn’t care at all - but Martin took the pot and filled it with water without much fuss. For a moment, Jon wondered if this was the same man who’d spent fifteen minutes arguing with Sasha about the ‘proper’ way to make a good cup of tea. 

Then again, Jon wasn’t the man who’d spent fifteen minutes eavesdropping as his assistant lectured his  _ other _ assistant about correct brewing techniques either, so perhaps it was unfair of him to judge.

“I got some tea bags yesterday,” Martin explained as he stared at the pot. “At the station, I mean. Some awful blend, I’m sure, but we can buy some better stuff in the village.”

They quietly stumbled around the kitchen, taking out spoons and cups and whatever could count as breakfast food from the grocery bags. It was strangely natural, existing in the same space, and while Jon ached with how much he wished the casual hand on his shoulder could be more than a fleeting touch as Martin walked past him, he wouldn’t be ungrateful, wouldn’t be  _ greedy _ . If fleeting touches and polite small talk was all Martin was willing to give, he’d take it and he’d be grateful and he wouldn’t ask for more.

He poured the water into the cups, careful not to spill any on the counter, and went to get the box of biscuits they’d bought - some nameless whole-wheat monstrosities that had sadly been the only option they had.

As he set the plates on the table, Martin sat down, both hands around his mug as he looked out of the window, deep in thought.

“I was thinking we should clean the place up a bit,” he said. “It’s pretty much covered in dust, and I think we need to fix the shower if we want hot water.”

Jon nodded around a sip of bland Earl Grey, whose colour was the only thing  _ grey  _ about it. He tried not to grimace at the thought, and made himself drink again out of spite.

“Most of Daisy’s stuff is in the boxes, we should also sort that out.”

Martin’s voice was clipped, eyes focused on something Jon couldn’t see, and the tension was building up more and more, threatening to swallow him up if he didn’t do something  _ now _ . 

There was something in him, something that was ready to fight to never have to experience those awkward silences again. Something careless and hot-headed that was bound to get him in trouble, that would ruin everything-

Something that currently held the wheels to his brain.

“I’ve missed you,” he uttered, the words leaving his mouth before he could process them. One single breath and out in the open they were, laid bare for Martin to see, just as he had been in the Lonely. Laid bare, honest and raw, all his ugliness on display-

Jon began panicking, hands gripping his mug so tightly his knuckles went white. He could feel his breathing grow more laboured as the seconds stretched out with no reply from Martin, and he was too much of a coward to look up and  _ deal _ with the consequences of his own thoughtless actions.

How could he put him in such a position? How could he be so insensitive, so callous?

He could hear his own treacherous heart threatening to beat out of his chest, phantom ribs tightening around his lungs. 

“I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” He whispered in the end, a slow exhale and the dragging sound of the chair against the floor telling him Martin had gotten up. He was still silent, and he hoped - desperately, miserably - that perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he hadn’t understood the meaning and the enormity of what he’d said.

Jon followed him with shy eyes as he put his mug in the sink, letting the water run for a few moments. He didn’t turn to face him, shoulders drawing a tight line, his head low as he kept looking down at the hissing tap. 

He moved, silently as he had begun to do after everything that had happened. Quietly enough to go unnoticed, to slip out of anyone’s grip. Jon remembered a time when he could tell apart his footsteps from anyone else’s, his shuffling gait a comforting presence in the still evenings he’d spend holed up in his office.

Martin made his way to the door, resting a hand on the frame. He still wouldn’t look at him, and Jon wanted to  _ scream _ .

“Yeah,” Martin muttered. “You shouldn’t have.”


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon cleans up the mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit different - you can see how I kind of dumped in it every single Daisy headcanon but that's fine.  
> Content Warnings: Self-loathing, Spiralling thoughts, Anxiety

The thing about Daisy, Jon reasoned, was that she’d always loathed making a mess.

It was ironic, given her patron, but she was probably one of the neatest people he’d ever met. The nights he’d spent at her place - hers, not Basira’s. Not after the Buried. - he’d marvelled at how every single item served multiple purposes and had its own place. 

He had asked her if that was how she saw the world as well. A balanced system with a clear order, where everyone had to fulfil their role in order for everything to flow nicely.

She’d barked out a laugh at that, shaking her head as she sipped her drink - and what a nice surprise that someone like  _ Daisy _ would enjoy mulled wine so much! - and explained to him that there was a difference between wanting to know exactly where to find what she needed and creating such a senseless philosophy.

But back to the point, Daisy had always been neat. Cleaning supplies were to be stored under the kitchen and bathroom sinks, and that was simply how things were meant to be.

Rubber gloves and rags, soap and sanitiser, everything was as carefully placed in this forgotten cottage as it had been in her flat.

Jon wondered if she’d laugh at him for turning out to be a stress-cleaner, and figured she’d probably would up until he pointed out she was quite the same. Then she would scoff and ask him to hand her a cloth so she could show him ‘how it’s done’.

Martin had left the cottage after the disaster breakfast, and Jon had immediately decided that the proper way to deal with it was to conjure up an image of his ex-Hunter friend and begin deep-cleaning the place. After all, they didn’t know what sort of nasty business she had taken care of in those rooms, and it was only sensible of him to want Martin to come back to a less threatening place.

Because he would come back,  _ of course  _ he would. 

Jon had simply annoyed him with his thoughtlessness, that was all. He’d probably gone out for a walk, to clear his head. To avoid snapping at him, even though he probably would have agreed that he deserved it. 

Martin was always such a considerate man.

Another thing he hadn’t expected of Daisy had been her… particular taste in furniture and dècor. 

If he’d been asked what her house looked like before entering, he would have guessed something very rough, industrial - some of those bare brick walls he’d see in magazines whenever he took a trip to A&E. 

He  _ certainly _ would not have guessed she had a penchant for rustic, traditional interiors, and when he’d first realised she liked floral patterns he’d almost burst out laughing.

Then again, it was all very  _ Daisy _ .

She even owned some books on gardening - and had once told him about how she used to give Basira flowers when they had first started dating, each with its particular meaning.

“If you were a flower,” She had said, a phantom smile on her face. “You’d be a red carnation. Since you’re so hopelessly devoted to dear Mart-”

She hadn’t finished the sentence, as he had decided to throw one of her favourite pillows in her general direction, hiding a self-satisfied smirk as it hit the mark straight on.

Good. This was good. Flowers were good, and cleaning was good, and Martin would come back in no time to help him finish setting everything up. They could get lunch - he was pretty sure he’d spotted some canned soup somewhere in the larder - and they could get some rest before going on with their days. 

Perhaps Martin would like hearing about Daisy and her flowers.

The sound of someone fumbling with a key made him turn towards the door, schooling his expression into what he hoped was neutral professionalism rather than helpless puppy love.

Martin walked in, sighing deeply as he did so. His eyes met Jon’s for the briefest moment, and then he looked down to the floor, making a move to grab one of the rags. He wasn’t wearing a coat, the washed-out blue sweater the only thing keeping the cold morning breeze at bay. Then again, it was still summer, so perhaps he hadn’t minded the cold too much.

“I’m sorry you had to start tidying up on your own,” Martin said, steady and so empty it made Jon’s heart ache. “I can take it from here.”

“No need,” he replied. 

Then, “Where have you been?”

Martin shrugged. “Around. Needed to clear my head a bit.”

“Can you- that is, are you sure you should be alone?” Jon bit his tongue around the last word, cursing his utter inability at saying the right thing for fucking  _ once _ -

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Jon.”

The words stung like hot iron on his skin, and he could simply let himself nod.

“Of course.”

Scrubbing at one stubborn stain on the table, he focused on controlling his breathing, keeping the tears at bay. He would most certainly  _ not _ start crying in front of Martin like a baby, he would take his lumps and be an adult about the entire thing. He knew Martin had no obligation towards him, he didn’t have to be nice or explain himself to a man who’d deserted him more than once-

This was good, he reasoned. This was  _ fine _ , because they were two grown men who could live together peacefully without letting their feelings blind their judgement. 

If Martin wanted to spend time alone, that was his business and his alone. If Jon wanted to eat people’s trauma for breakfast, that was a rather unfortunate situation but it was his own problem.

He could be sensible about it. Didn’t have to ruin what little truce and lingering respect - the word  _ affection  _ tasted bitter in his mouth as he swallowed it down - they had left.

“Could you hand me that?” Martin broke the silence, gesturing towards the spray bottle next to Jon, who passed it over without looking at him.

See? He could be a grown-up about it. He could deal with it. 

He didn’t need to fill the silence with confessions he would regret, he didn’t have to drive Martin further away. They could make do with this - admittedly less-than-ideal situation, and while he would of course always regret his own stupidity and lost chances, there was no need to jeopardise everything else over it. They were pretty much  _ stuck _ there, at least until Jonah Magnus represented a threat, and there was little to be done about it.

He  _ would _ deal with it.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter five, I hope you guys enjoy it! The response to this story has been really incredible, thank you for making this old old man happy *brushes tear*  
> For the record I am only old on the inside, but I am working on the outside as we speak-  
> Content Warnings: Self-hate, Canon Typical Trauma Cuisine, Mentions of Loneliness/Isolation

Each hour dragged by slow like dripping molasses, heavy and tooth-achingly bittersweet. 

They had decided that the quickest way to get the cleaning over and done with was to split the rooms between them, so that they’d finish everything by the end of the day.

Possibly without having to meet the other’s eyes while doing so.

Jon had taken the kitchen, since they’d done the living room together, and he was in charge of the sheets they’d hung to dry on the clothesline. He’d found some old blankets as well, and those had been put outside the window to rid them of the mouldy smell that came with staying locked up in damp closets for months on end.

The pipes of the sink had turned out to be quite a pain to fix, and while he would have preferred to work it out by himself, he was also mature enough to admit they probably needed some professional attention, rather than his own amateur hands.

They’d put a paper on the wall, a neat list of all they needed to get from the village. Jon added  _ Plumber _ with his spidery handwriting, taking a moment to think about the story they’d have to tell.

It was unusual for two strangers to just randomly move into a house in the highlands, and he figured getting the police called on them for being suspicious would only end badly.

Besides he’d rather  _ not _ find out about any weird corpses around the place, shutting the Eye’s stream of knowledge out for all that regarded Daisy’s  _ activities _ in the cottage.

The easiest lie would probably be a spontaneous retreat from the chaos of the city, looking for calm and peace, or something along those lines.

Perhaps they could say Martin needed the silence to write, paint the picture of two professional acquaintances sharing an isolated house in the middle of nowhere so one of them could work on his poetry.

Still a better option than “I’m an eldritch monster who feeds on people’s terror and this is my ex-assistant turned half-monster himself, but rather than sautèeing his victims trauma for dinner, he prefers vanishing them into thin air.”

Well.  _ That _ would certainly allow them to not be disturbed.

He glanced at the clock above the counter - the one he’d just fixed, losing half his eyesight in the process - and sighed. It was little over midday, and he wished he could simply go to sleep and not have to deal with the rest of this day.

Instead, he quietly made his way over to the bedroom where he could hear Martin shuffling about, knocking on the door-frame as he peeked in.

“Sorry, I- Do you want something to eat? I think Daisy had soup.”

Martin looked pleasantly surprised at seeing him, his features less tense than they’d been up until a few hours before.

“Oh. Uh, sure, why not? I’ll come help, just- Could you grab the end of that sheet?”

He mindlessly reached for the corner of the piece of fabric, trying to keep himself neutral as they folded the bedding in silence. While he hadn’t expected Martin to snap at him again - he wasn’t so blind to have missed the regret in his eyes when he’d done so the first time - he still wasn’t expecting the sudden… civilised conversation?

As much as a polite request could count as conversation.

“I think I’ll ask Basira to send some statements when we pop down by the village,” he said, making sure to avoid Martin’s eyes. “Peter Lukas should keep the Eye happy for a while, but I’d rather not go through withdrawal again.”

He didn’t have to explain that he’d much rather not traumatise a poor Scottish sod just because he hadn’t thought of packing his nightmare diet.

“Sure. We can go later, if you want.”

The politeness cut at Jon like a sharp knife, pressing into his skin hard enough to draw blood but only a few drops. Only to tease at him with what could have been, but was now gone.

Shaking the thought away - he had  _ standards _ , even for his terribly embarrassing musings - he made sure the sheet was safe in the closet before heading back to the kitchen, reaching for the pots and cans above the stove. 

Tomato soup.

Typical, he wanted to scoff. Daisy had always liked that, and while he knew she didn’t care much for cooking, she’d always insisted on making that one from scratch.

Still, he figured that if she was on the run for some Hunt business, she’d probably take ready-made canned comfort food over hours of peeling and cutting and simmering.

Martin came into the room, holding a dirty rag as far away from himself as possible, a disgusted grimace on his face as he opened the bin to throw it away.

“Ew,” he commented.

“Do I want to know?”

“Trust me, you  _ don’t _ . The amount of dust in this place is unbelievable.”

Jon nodded, rummaging in a drawer to find the can opener he was sure he’d seen just a moment before. “It’s a miracle we didn’t get allergic reactions or anything.”

Martin stared at him, visibly puzzled. “Didn’t you use to have a ton of those? Tim always laughed about some ‘strawberry incident’.”

Feeling himself blush, Jon opened the soup can, hiding away his flushed face. “I used to, yes.” And then, “Tim better not have told tales- he swore he’d never blab.”

He actually chuckled at that, filling Jon with unexplainable pride. He was treading carefully, tiptoeing around the line separating what little and precarious balance they’d found and the inevitable downfall of it all as he made another stupid, reckless mistake.

“He didn’t, he just implied something had happened at some pub.”

“I threw up on half the patrons, is what happened. All because I was-” He took a deep breath. “All because I might have forgotten to mention quite how severe my reaction to strawberry tended to be.”

“You mean you were too proud to tell anyone.”

“What I said.”

He left the soup on the stove, waiting for it to start simmering and took out a plate, waiting for Martin to finish cleaning the table before setting it down.

“Just one?” He asked as Jon went back to his previous position.

“I’m not- eating normal food tends to not react well with whatever monster biology I’ve got going on. Couple of meals a day are fine, but I’d rather not push it if I don’t have some statements.”

Martin nodded, and from his expression, Jon could tell he had not really understood what he meant. Truth be told, Jon himself didn’t quite get it either, but as much as Peter’s statement had given him back some kind of human appearance - his skin wasn’t ashen grey any more, for one - he still knew the Beholding would have liked him to go on a live-statement-only diet.

_ Tough luck _ , he thought.  _ I’m not going to do that _ .

He sat down at the table, fidgeting idly with a loose thread he’d pulled from his sleeve, stealing cautious glances every time Martin was looking somewhere else. 

He looked… different now. That was probably an understatement - besides  _ he _ was one to talk - and as much as he had hoped he’d go back to normal as soon as they stepped out of the Lonely, he had been well-aware from the start that it wouldn’t be so easy.

Everything about Martin seemed dulled, somehow. As if some of the fog had never stopped lingering around him, masking his steps and threatening to swallow him up again. His eyes - never still and then suddenly fixated on a blank space on the wall - were still as beautiful as he remembered, but less bright. His hair, longer now than it had ever been before, almost reaching his shoulders, was still blond, but it had started greying, the colour growing opaque. 

Jon studied him silently, making do with what little glimpses he could get. Every now and then - like in the car, or mere minutes before - he could swear nothing had changed, that Martin was still the same man he’d fallen for such a long time ago.

Then he’d turn, and something in his face would shift into the indifferent mask Jon had learnt to dread.

Jon looked up, a newfound determination settling in somewhere deep inside of him.

_ You won’t be alone again _ , he vowed to the empty space between them.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a trip to the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to change the update schedule because school has been absolutely hectic lately, but for now have another chapter!  
> Content Warnings: Discussion of Isolation

The trip to the village was extraordinarily uneventful.

Jon hadn’t dared to hope as much, so convinced as he was that someone would start questioning them, that someone would look at him and somehow Know he was not the human mask he wore.

Not completely, at least. 

He wasn’t sure how much those semantics would matter if someone were to discover the truth. He doubted he’d be able to ensure his survival through a heated debate on  _ what _ exactly constitutes a human.

Nothing happened.

The car ride was rather quiet, and as soon as they’d arrived they had made a beeline for the only payphone in the Highlands - though Martin had objected to this, saying it was probably the only one in all of  _ Scotland _ . Basira had been- well, pleased was never something she could be where he was regarded, but she seemed content enough.

She’d agreed to send him some of the statements she’d managed to sneak out before  _ everything _ , and that alone was more than Jon had dared to wish for, half-expecting her to ask him to go cold turkey again.

She’d been almost happy to hear from Martin as well, but had refused to meet them there.

“I’ve got work to do. I need to find Daisy.” She’d said. And Jon really didn’t have it in himself to blame her. God knew he’d drop it all again if Martin were to need him to.

He wouldn’t. Not anymore. 

But that was a thought for another time.

It looked like he was going to form a lovely new nighttime tradition, what with the silent crying when Martin was asleep.

He’d roll his eyes at his own patheticness if his heart weren’t aching so acutely.

Rubbing a hand on his chest, he stared at the shelves in the well-stocked shop, trying to decide what brand of water would suit them better. 

Martin wasn’t faring much better, apparently having a crisis in front of the basket pile.

Jon walked up to him, careful to keep his tone in check. “It’s weird. Being out like this.”

“Mh,” Martin nodded, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “I know. It’s been a while. This is-” he gestured at the empty shop. “- so normal. Mundane. I keep expecting some sort of monster to just- jump out from behind one of the shelves.”

“I could see Elias hiding between the onions to scare us.”

Martin chortled, some of the tension leaving his face. “Don’t joke about that, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

They gathered all the supplies they’d need - the cottage was surprisingly unfurnished, besides from the alarming amount of cleaning products - and enough groceries to allow them to not show back up for at least a week, placing everything in the boot before relaxing a bit.

“We could take a walk,” Martin suggested, his tone as surprised as his face at his own suggestion. Jon nodded, hoping he wasn’t appearing too eager.

“Sure. Let’s.”

The village itself was lovely, in that quaint way Scottish villages tended to be, and even as they tried to shy away from the residents, some would give them weird looks in the streets. 

Whether out of surprise at seeing two new faces or shock at seeing just how  _ tired _ those faces were, he didn’t want to know.

There was a small newsstand they stopped at, the owner a lively old man who insisted on giving them a map with the major paths around the village, in case they wanted to see the sights. He’d started talking about the lovely walks he used to take -  _ “before me old leg gave up on me, that is” _ \- and Jon could  _ feel _ Martin growing restless next to him with each passing minute.

That was - unusual. The Lonely - and Jon thanked whatever deity had made him smite Peter Lukas already, or he would have gone back to finish the job - had taken its toll on Martin, and he remembered scoffing at his assistant’s tendency to  _ blather _ (ignoring Tim’s opinion that “making small talk isn’t blathering, Jon, you just have the social skills of my left sock-”)

_ Now _ , he thought, _ I’d give anything for him to chat a dog’s way into the Archives _ .

When he realised Martin was close to snapping at the man, Jon politely excused the two of them and began walking back to the car. He didn’t try talking - God knew that would backfire, and he didn’t need the Eye to tell him that - but he made sure their pace was slow enough for Martin to get enough time to gather his thoughts.

Perhaps they could make it like this. Slowly easing him back into something not Forsaken, prising the cold fog away one bit at a time.

He carefully folded the map in his pocket, holding back on the urge to play with the corners of the paper as he usually did, folding them to the point of leaving clear marks on his most beloved books. Georgie used to joke about being able to guess his favourite parts just by studying the number of marks he’d left behind as he read.

The car hiccupped all the way up to the hill, Martin grimacing every time he had to put pressure on the gas pedal. 

Jon wanted to say something about getting ready to push the car, but bit his tongue and went back to his staring at the pastures around them.

The rest of the afternoon faded into a quiet evening, the sunset sputtering its last few coughs of light before surrounding the house in darkness, and Jon punched his pillow, trying to find a comfortable position on the sofa, kicking his legs like a stubborn mule.

Less than two days they’d been in there, and he had already messed up what, thrice? 

He tossed around.

He’d already had this conversation with- well, himself. He’d already gone through every small mistake he’d made while he showered, then some more as he dried his hair with Daisy’s coarse towels. He didn’t have it in him to go for the third round of self-loathing so late at night -  _ little over nine _ , his mind supplied - and he would most definitely not put up with it.

He’d have plenty of time in the morning, when the world didn’t seem so far away, the cottage wrapped up in a starry quilt.

It was a great place for Martin, he figured.

Distant enough from other people so he wouldn’t get shellshock from leaving the Lonely so abruptly, but not so much that it’d be like having never left it at all.

It was a complex balance, but one they needed to keep. At least for a while, until Martin got better.

Because he  _ would _ . He would get better and he wouldn’t look so sullen, and he wouldn’t look at Jon - the few times he actually did look at him - with such neutrality in his eyes. Like he could have been replaced by a sack of potatoes, and nothing would have changed. Like it didn’t matter whether he was there or not. Like it had never mattered at all.

Kicking back recalcitrant tears, he tried to keep his snivelling down. They could do this, he couldn’t- he  _ wouldn’t _ lose faith. They were going to be alright.

Jon had to believe in that, if anything.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night falls over the cottage, and Jon is once again alone with his thoughts - and God knows he doesn't do well by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you so much for sticking with me here, I'm sorry to say that I'll have to start updating every three days now, which I hope won't bother you too much. I wish the chapters will make it worth it!  
> By the way, maybe this unbearable miscommunication would be sorted out much faster if I stopped listening to yearning music. Just a thought.  
> Content Warnings: Slight Discussion of Past Injuries, Isolation

Jon had sworn he’d never willingly Know anything about Martin.

It was basic courtesy, after all. A very polite “I will not unearth your deepest secrets and I won’t pull out from you any kind of information you don’t want to give.”

He figured that was pretty much a given, in normal life. In normal conversations.

But they were far from normal nowadays, so Jon had promised and Martin had trusted him.

He’d promised he wouldn’t Know, but the urge to just _check_ _if he was asleep_ , to See if he could finally let himself cry again in what he was now sure would be his new routine - spend time with Martin, try to avoid upsetting Martin, inevitably upset Martin, cry at night about upsetting Martin - was growing. It was _exhausting_ , to keep himself in check, but he knew (lowercase knew) that it was a promise he would have to keep.

He tried to listen out for any sound - footsteps, shuffling, the tell-tale rustle of someone turning in bed - and waited, each second stretching unnaturally long, weighing on his chest. Nothing came.

Perhaps he was asleep already. Perhaps he’d been for a while, and he wouldn’t hear.

He whimpered at the thought of  _ perhaps he’s awake and he’ll hear and he’ll come out here to hold you. _

No. 

No, it was unfair of him to indulge in such fantasies.

It was unfair to the both of them - teased with something he couldn’t have and unwillingly imagined in a scenario he clearly didn’t care for any more.

He tried to blink the heavy tears away, focusing on the dragging silence. He wasn’t eavesdropping, he was merely paying attention to his surroundings, making sure he wouldn’t disturb anyone with his useless blubbering.

_ I won’t try to Know anything about you, Martin. _

Good. He wouldn’t. 

His eyes fell on the door. This time, he’d made sure it was completely closed rather than simply left ajar. Still no sounds.

_ I won’t Know. I won’t Know. _

Clutching the promise tight against his chest, he let go and cried.

A loud clash of copper pots dragging against each other - like nails on a blackboard, making his hair stand up, teeth clenching painfully as he jerked awake - was understandably  _ not _ how he’d expected to be woken up.

The scraping resumed, and Jon was overwhelmed by the need to draw his nails on the rough fabric of the couch, giving his senses something else to focus on rather than the absurd amount of racket he could feel in his  _ bones _ -

“Shit!”

Martin cried out loudly, the sound overlapping with the telltale  _ clang _ of a number of pans falling to the ground.

Completely awake by this point, Jon jumped up, legs staggering under the sudden weight. He begged all that was holy to  _ not _ make a fool out of himself by falling on his face, and tried to totter over to the kitchen in the most dignified way he could muster.

“Martin, what-?”

He walked into the room to find most of Daisy’s pots on the ground and Martin rubbing at his neck.

“S-sorry?” He tentatively asked. He was flushed red, and the look was so  _ him _ that Jon couldn’t help but smile. 

“Need a hand?” He asked, kneeling to gather some of the pans near him.

Martin nodded, and began tidying up as well, fumbling his way through a half-apology that was  _ absolutely unneeded, Jesus Martin it’s not like you dropped them on me- _

“What’s with your face?” He asked at one point, eyebrows raised as he took in Jon’s puffy eyes. 

A number of things crossed Jon’s mind in less than a second. 

One,  _ right he’d been crying. _

Two, he hadn’t managed to wake up early enough to wash up and make himself presentable as he’d done the day before, quickly followed by his third realisation. Martin could see his swollen face, and he could  _ definitely _ tell he’d been crying.

He clenched his fists tightly, humiliation pouring over him like a cold shower as his entire being tried to recoil from itself, flinching.

“I-”

“Was it the allergies?” Martin asked in earnest. “I know- I know how you said Beholding made you better with those, but maybe there’s really too much dust in here and-”

Jon sighed with relief, nodding his head eagerly. 

“Probably, yes. That must have been it, I’ll try keeping the windows open during the day-”

Martin looked at him with a puzzled expression, hesitation mixed with a worry so familiar it felt like coming home - and didn’t Jon just  _ love _ the idea of examining why that well-known frown felt like tea and paper and the old smell of the Archives - and he shook his head.

“No way Jon, you’re all red. Try to stay outside for today, we’ll leave everything open and just take a walk or something. You need fresh air.”

“Martin, that’s really not-”

“No buts, I’d rather not wait for you to get an asthma attack on me.” He was confident in his words, and if Jon hadn’t been so worried about getting called out on his lie, he’d be infinitely charmed by the attitude.

In the privacy of his own mind, he let himself acknowledge the fact that yes, perhaps this specific attitude had always been a weakness of his, and maybe barging into his office with a handful of worms wasn’t exactly a grand romantic gesture, but it had  _ worked _ -

Martin went for the window above the sink, drawing the curtains and opening up, a gust of wind ruffling his hair. 

“You don’t have to do this, I- I can take care of myself, don’t worry.”

Martin gave him a once-over and scoffed. “Don’t worry my arse, I still remember the bread knife incident and frankly? Not a good look for your independent, I-can-take-care-of-myself agenda.”

Jon snorted loudly at that.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go open up. Are you  _ sure _ you don’t mind tidying up-”

“Jon, get the hell out of the house and breathe some air that hasn’t been stagnating in here for months.”

To see Martin so in his element - fussing over him, not taking any of his bullshit - was doing things to him. He looked far more lively, that edge of dullness about him seemingly  _ gone _ , and was Jon being presumptuous in his assumption that  _ this might be it, he might be okay _ -?

He didn’t allow himself to ask the question, scared as he was to shatter whatever  _ this _ could be.

Instead, he dragged a duvet outside, placing it gingerly on the dewy grass and sitting down.

He could breathe just fine.

He still looked like he’d spent a good portion of his night bawling his eyes out.

There was a sink on the back of the house, rusty and old, and as he turned the tap on gathering a handful of water to wash his face with, he sighed once more.

He’d been awake for less than twenty minutes, and he was already struggling to keep even more secrets from Martin. 

Grimacing, he rubbed at the scarred skin, running a wet hand through his hair in a feeble attempt at making himself look more put-together. He rinsed his mouth, allowing himself one of those loud gargling sounds that would have earned him a good clip round the ear had his grandmother been there to hear. 

“Jon?” 

He called out to Martin, surprised and pleased in equal measures as he approached with the barest hint of a smile.

“You’ll catch a cold standing like that in your pajamas.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine, nurse, thanks.”

“Don’t start.” He reached for the clothesline they’d hung the day before, taking a towel and handing it to him. “I was thinking, a walk would do you good.”

Jon took the cloth, roughly wiping at his face.

“Ah- That is- It really doesn’t matter, I’m fine.”

Martin gave him a pointed look, and Jon stared back, making a mental note to never tell a lie again,  _ ever _ , given how bad a liar he was. They always got him in trouble and hadn’t proved themselves to be useful yet. But he was in neck deep now, and he couldn’t very well blurt out that  _ actually Martin, that was a lie, I’m feeling perfectly adequate- I merely spent the night crying because I’m so in love with you it seems unreal but you are clearly not anymore so- _

Yes, well. Not exactly the kind of conversation he was up to so early in the morning.

Besides Jon couldn’t deny that a small part of him - and for the sake of his own dignity, he reassured himself that it was a rather  _ small _ part, inconsequential, a tiny bit of his brain that most definitely did not matter - wasn’t completely opposed to the idea of going on a walk with Martin.

He’d never been one for hiking - he liked to believe that the most strenuous activity he allowed himself to indulge in was moving files from some desk to the other, or the occasional running away from other Avatars - but the image of the two of them strolling through the Highlands was embarrassingly appealing.

He didn’t let his mind go as far as to imagine them holding hands, but it came far too close for his liking, and in order to avoid making a fool out of himself he simply nodded.

It would only do them good, to spend some time outside of the cottage. Maybe talking would have been easier in a more neutral territory. Maybe they would be able to sort out some of that awful tension that had been building.

He wasn’t expecting a sudden romance novel-worthy confession but perhaps-

Perhaps they could at least fix what little friendship had ever been between them.

“I- You know what, alright. Let’s go.”

He tried to keep his expression positive, though somewhere deep in his chest a weight had begun to form, and for a moment he believed to be in Jared’s clutches again, his horrendously deformed hands - with far too many bones bulging out, knuckles covered in sickly wan skin, thick and yellow in colour, his fingers long and stoutish as they curled around and  _ inside _ him, reaching and grabbing his ribs-

He shook himself out, his brow feeling clammy and cold.

In front of him, Martin seemed to have gone twice as pale, his eyes wide. He made it as if to leave, halfway through a step back and away from him.

Shame poured down his spine in waves, making him want to curl in himself and hide as realisation dawned on him.

Martin hadn’t been offering to come with.

_ Right _ .


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes a walk. Will this man ever start communicating properly? In his defence, chronic pining idiot disease is a really tough one to beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, have a slightly early update! I know I usually post in the evening but what can I say? I like to live on the edge.  
> Content Warnings: Anxiety, Jon's Canon Typical Inability To Process His Feelings

_Right._

Good, yes. Excellent. So incredibly exactly-what-he-was-expecting that it almost _bored_ him. Fantastic.

“Jon, I don’t know- I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Martin sighed, scratching his head as he turned his eyes anywhere but near Jon, so clearly uncomfortable that he prayed to the Buried to just swallow him up into the ground so he’d never have to see that strained expression on his face.

“I think it’s better if I stay.” A look. “Finish some cleaning. Sort Daisy’s things out.”

Jon figured if the Buried wouldn’t take him, he could always ask Simon Fairchild to throw him into the ocean and leave him there.

“Sure,” he said instead, trying desperately to keep from stuttering. God knew he didn’t need to look even more _pathetic_ and he’d always hated how his voice would give out on him on occasion, letters and sounds catching in his throat, getting stuck behind his teeth, twisting and twirling around his tongue until it was bound to the roof of his mouth, big and swollen and limp-

“Sorry,” Martin cut off his spiralling thoughts. “Maybe another time.”

If the last few months had taught Jon anything, it was that when Martin said ‘maybe another time’, it’d mean ‘never’.

That was. Good to know. Very good.

His thoughts felt clipped, mumbled. Single words echoing in his head with a terrible screeching sound.

Nails on walls, metal on metal, clashing sounds torturing his ears.

“Sure,” he said again. “Sure.”

Martin stood there for a moment, averting his eyes.

“I- I think I’ll go put on some tea.”

The moment he disappeared into the cottage, Jon gripped the sink with shaking hands, muttering _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ under his breath, barely audible as his entire being seemed to be drowning in shame. God, what a mess he’d made-

Frantically he opened the tap again, splashing his face to keep the mortified flush at bay. He was aware of the cold water spilling around him, running down his neck and drenching his sleep shirt, but it was a secondary thought, only a small cognizance in the confused sea that was his mind.

Perfectly soaked as he now was, Jon slumped against the wall - old white plaster sticking to his clothes, crumbling under the weight of his back - and exhaled.

He’d have to go back in, he was well aware. He’d have to walk back inside, get dressed, politely decline the cuppa Martin would no doubt offer him - he could just _picture_ it in his head, Martin refusing to meet his eyes, a shadow of fog around him that made Jon taste that bitter, salty tang Peter Lukas always exuded. A mug on the table, with all the milk and sugar he liked in it. Not a peace offering, not a sign of any kind. Not even pity.

Just plain tea.

The cup would sit in the kitchen untouched, until it went cold - and then some more. At last, either him or Martin would quietly wash it, spilling its contents into the sink without exchanging a look. An undignified end, he supposed.

Not unlike his own, too.

He gathered all his courage and held it tight in front of him - like he used to do his flashlight as a kid, when he’d have to get up at night and the whole house would be dark and silent. In the same fashion, he brandished his bravery as a shield and made his way inside.

The relieved sigh he let out once he realised Martin was not in sight would have made his past self shiver with embarrassment. The door to the bedroom was closed, and a cup of milky tea was sitting on the counter.

He allowed himself a pained smile, at the reminder of quite how well he knew Martin, and how little he also did.

It was a perplexing situation, to know a person and have them be a perfect stranger at the same time.

Quiet as a mouse he took a bundle of clothes from the bag he’d brought, tiptoeing his way into the bathroom to get dressed. The old, baggy sweater he’d packed had been a gift from Tim and Sasha after his promotion - a memory that threatened to turn sour if he let himself linger on it too much.

It was warm, he reasoned, and hid his scarred hand well enough. The vibrant green had matted into a dark sage over time, and he found it ironic that as he too grayed and grizzled, the jumper followed his steps.

Quickly enough he finished getting ready and began to head out. He didn’t bother writing a note on the paper by the door - he figured Martin wouldn’t have come look for him if he got late anyways.

The path he decided to take was marked by a number he barely glanced at, and with the sun beginning to rise over the lazy line of early morning, it looked cheerful enough. The grass shone with dew, and a few heavy bumblebees were hovering around. 

Overall, he reckoned, it was as nice a scenario as he hadn’t seen in years - yet the clutch of regret around his heart was too tight for him to wiggle out of. 

It was good, it was fine.

The words had begun to make him nauseous with how much he was wearing them out.

He kicked a pebble out of his way.

“Supplemental,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

“I know there’s no tape recorders out here, but one might as well appear. They like to follow us, starved for drama as they are.”

A breath. The path was beginning to get steep.

“I know I shouldn’t have assumed that he- well, we, uh. I just shouldn’t have.” A sigh. “It’s really not surprising, and yet here I go, acting without thinking. Again. As if it hadn’t proven itself to be the one thing I should _never_ do.”

The chill was starting to sting on his hands, and he shoved them in his pockets. A floating thought that wasn’t quite _his_ whispered the temperature in his ear.

Seventeen degrees.

He’d never liked the cold - hated winter in London, at least. No matter how many layers he’d wear, the wind would always manage to wrestle its way below his neckline, sending shivers down his back. And he found the rain to be quite bothersome, what with him getting drenched every time a car would pick up speed right next to him, sending the contents of a puddle flying.

Martin had written poetry on the beauty of rain - how it was a representation of a human state, something about nature and emotion reflecting each other like mirrors.

He’d found it to be pretentious on top of terrible, but it had been Martin’s and of course he loved it.

Though that didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.

“I never really looked twice at him at first,” Jon reminisced. “He was- a bother, most days. It was worse when he’d prove himself to be _competent_ , because then I had nothing to grumble about. For a couple of weeks he dated- I can’t remember her name, she worked in Accountings. And I couldn’t stand her, obviously. Not that I ever let myself admit I was _slightly_ jealous.”

In the privacy of the open path, he chuckled.

“God, I was such a _prick_. And then I realised, and it got worse. Because then I couldn’t _not_ notice him, and it was- distracting. I would see him in a new sweater and take the morning to recover, like some swooning maiden. Then I’d make up some fault of his to fixate on instead, like- ‘Oh, he dropped a file today, I can’t believe I have to put up with this kind of poor work ethics.’ Just- A nightmare, that’s what I was.”

He thought he’d heard a faint _click_ somewhere to his left, and kept walking.

“He was so _good_ , I couldn’t wrap my head around it. And whenever he let some of that- pettiness come out, I’d feel myself falling for him and I couldn’t stand it. Especially when he started lecturing me on why screeching at spiders in my office would scare them more than it’d help me. I almost fired him on the spot, that’s how embarrassed I was.”

“I don’t like spiders.”

A beat.

“He thinks tarantulas are _cute_.”


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who said cooking together can't bring up _interesting_ topics?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses, I just think food is poetic and cooking is my love language.  
> Content Warnings: Mentions of Childhood Abuse (Neglect)

By the time Jon reached the cottage again, the sun was close to its zenith, and he could see clouds approaching. They moved fast, he found, gathering in groups. It’d probably rain in the afternoon.

He let himself in, leaving the shoes by the doormat. Immediately he spotted the empty space where the cup of tea had been earlier, and his shoulders slumped.

Martin looked up at him from the armchair by the coffee table, a book in his hands.

“I found it in one of Daisy’s boxes. There were lots of them.”

“She likes to read.” He replied, and went over to the kitchen. “We have some chicken that needs to be cooked- do you like curry?”

Martin nodded and put the book down. 

“Let me help.”

Jon reckoned he would get used to the infuriating politeness between them one day, but for now, it drove deeper and deeper into his chest, jagged and rough like a dull blade.

“Sure. You can, uh. Slice up some stuff for me, would you?”

He took out a wooden cutting board, placing two onions next to it while Martin rummaged through a drawer, looking for a knife. After pouring a small amount of oil in a saucepan, Jon added a prig of curry leaves, cardamom and cinnamon - the smell taking him back to his grandmother's kitchen. She used to tower over the counter, tall and large as she finely chopped and sliced the ingredients, while Jon stared, memorising every move.

“I won’t explain it twice, Jonathan,” she would say, and he’d scurry over to his stool to watch her work. 

Their elbows were barely brushing together as they moved in the small room, and soon enough the pot was simmering, and a lovely scent of spices had filled the house. He measured the rice in a cup before pouring it into boiling water.

“I never thought you’d be one to cook.” Martin said. “Not without burning the house down, at least.”

That made Jon chuckle. After setting the onions on the stove with garlic and turmeric, he turned around to see Martin already chopping tomatoes.

“It always surprises people, I don’t know why. I like it, it’s- relaxing, in a way.”

“Did your parents teach you?”

“Grandmother. My- I grew up with her.” He knew Martin would understand. “She didn’t want me to grow up into some incompetent dependent fool - used to say I’d have to impress someone with my skill someday. Though I reckon she just didn’t want to have to cook every time I got peckish.”

Martin nodded, handing him a ladle as he took the chicken out of the old fridge, placing it in the mixture and stirring it gently.

“My mum never taught me. I actually-” He let out a self conscious laugh. “I basically survived on ready-made microwaveable meals and whatever veggies I didn’t have to cook. For ages. Then I got the new job and she moved into the hospital, so I didn’t have to worry about making something she would hate.”

Jon allowed his fingers to brush Martin’s arm, lightly enough to pass as a casual touch. He hoped it was also clear that he understood.

“I still suck at it, don’t get me wrong- but I can make a mean stew, if you ever want to try it.”

“Of course. And for what’s worth, it took me  _ ages _ to learn how to avoid burning things to a crisp. When I was- ten, eleven I think, I put some biscuits in the oven at twice the temperature because I thought they’d bake twice as fast. Wasn’t allowed to touch the stove for a week, so I had to get creative if I wanted lunch.”

Martin didn’t seem to find the memory as funny as he did, but he visibly relaxed, his grip on the kitchen knife less stiff. They left the pot on the stove, its contents bubbling on the surface as they cooked. They moved to the table, sitting down on the chairs.

“Cooking is- harder and easier than it looks. It takes time and patience, and sometimes it doesn’t quite turn out the way it should, or the way you expect it to. It’s kind of a stubbornness contest - whoever holds out the longest wins. But it’s also you and- and the food, I guess, and you have a common goal so you kind of cooperate. Find compromises. The food has to be cooked and you have to be fed, so it’s best if you work together rather than against each other. It’s-” Jon let himself take a deep breath, hands balled up in fists on his thighs. “It’s something lots of people see as a chore, as a bother or- a burden. They think it’s not worth the hassle.”

“Maybe it takes too much time. Maybe- Maybe they don’t know how to cook properly. Or- Or maybe the ingredients have gone bad. Can’t cook if the right time has passed. If there’s no one sticking around to eat the food you’ve made.”

Jon swallowed, pouring some water into a glass and taking a sip.

“Yes but- Maybe you won’t know. Maybe there’s someone who would stick around, who wants to stick around. You won’t know for sure until you make something and ask them to stay.”

“It’s not that easy, Jon. Sometimes the moment passes and the atmosphere isn’t  _ right _ anymore.”

“Atmosphere can change. Food - cooking - can build the right moment. If it’s not there, for whatever reason- you can create the right atmosphere. If you want to.”

“Hm. I guess.”

Jon felt his face grow hotter, a flush travelling to his cheeks.

“The thing about cooking is that no matter how late- you can always learn, you can always start. You get to build up your own ritual around it, if you wish to. People think it’s a liability - just something you _ have _ to do for sustenance - but there’s so much more to it. They assume that as long as you can get by you’re  _ fine _ , and I guess they’re not wrong, though it doesn’t have to be just that. It can be a form of care, respect-”

_ Love _ .

Martin looked at him, kindness peeking out from the veil of fog in his eyes.

“And what do  _ you _ think?”

He fidgeted with one of the corners of the tablecloth.

“I don’t-” Jon drew in a shaky exhale. “I think it can be good. If- if the cook and the ingredients decide to work together. I think it can be great.”

Martin stared at him for a while, and then back to his lap.

Jon scrambled for an answer, eyes darting around the room.

“It’s- it’s the same as making tea. You need a good blend and milk and sugar - you can’t expect to make a good cuppa otherwise. But you also need to be very present, otherwise it will over-steep and become bitter. The same goes for food, it asks for a great effort. Without that the results will never be as good. So I’d say- if someone is willing to learn and ready to work with the ingredients… whatever the result, it will make for great food. Whether you follow a recipe or not.”

Martin moved a hand on the table, his fingers barely brushing against Jon’s own - the touch electric against his skin. He looked very far-away, and far more present than he’d been in ages.

“Jon,” he asked in a whisper. “Are you still talking about food?”


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could it be... communication? In _my_ slow burn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!   
> God, I know I must sound really sappy, but I'm seriously overwhelmed with the amount of love this fic is getting! I'm notoriously bad at starting a project and actually seeing it through, but so far I haven't lost my muse and I hope it lasts because I'm getting attached to these dumb old men.
> 
> Content Warnings: Slight Canon Compliant Self-Esteem Issues, Food and Cooking as Metaphors

Jon had never been a brave man.

He’d pretended to be so a number of times of course - either out of pride or sheer desperation - but he was not, at heart, a brave man.

He was clever, with a tendency to run into trouble without thinking; he was resourceful, though he had a hard time accepting help or asking others for it when he needed to.

He was many things, and brave was not one of them.

“Are you still talking about food?”

He scratched at the scarred skin on his hand, over the barely discernible shape of fingers wrapped around his palm, and kept his head down. He’d said too much - once again letting his mouth run. 

It had been three days.

He’d never be able to make it.

“Nevermind,” Martin said, sounding stiff. “Don’t answer that.”

Jon nodded and stood up, pushing his chair under the table as he moved to the stove. He didn’t need to - could hardly make the food cook faster by staring at it - but at least the itching sensation of Martin looking at him was easier to stand this way, facing away from him. When it was just a faint pinprick of a feeling, rather than the heavy weight of those dulled eyes.

“I’m not quite sure how you want me to reply, Martin.” He let out in a single breath. He could feel his every muscle tense under his skin, and his fingers had started shaking slightly. “Anything I’ll say, you’ll just look at me  _ like that _ and then leave. Or mutter something and then leave, or stay silent and then leave, and no matter what happens, Martin-”

Jon took a pause, glancing back at him, still sitting at the table. He looked neutral, if not a bit surprised at his outburst.

“No matter what happens,” he whispered again. “You always leave, and I’m always left mulling over my words and what I did wrong and torturing myself with every faux pas I’ve made.”

He began stirring the pot, focusing on the familiar and calming smell of spices rather than the cold settling over his bones.

“So what does it matter what I reply, when the outcome will always be the same?” His tone was gentler now, disheartened. “Forgive me for not giving you a satisfying reply, but I can’t- for the life of me, Martin, I can’t figure out what you want me to say or do. Who you want me to be.”

He paid no mind to the sound of wood dragging against the floor - of course he was leaving. He made himself stare ahead at the food on the stove, eyes darting to each simmering bubble coming up on the surface. He wouldn’t turn.

He wouldn’t watch him leave again.

Was it selfish of him, he wondered? To burst out after less than a week of swallowing his feelings, when Martin had kept his own secret for so long? He’d come to work every day, having to face a man he had no idea reciprocated his feelings, and he’d made  _ tea _ , and small talk and all those thousands little things that he always did. Was it selfish to let himself fall apart when he’d held out so much longer?

A phantom brush against his elbow had Jon all but jumping out of his skin.

Martin was next to him - far closer than he’d been ever since they’d hugged in the Lonely - and he was looking at him.

“I don’t want you to  _ be _ anything, Jon. Why do you even care that much? You’ve never looked twice at me back in the Archives- why do you care what  _ I _ think?”

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

“I suppose not.” A beat. “I’m sorry.”

And Martin left.

Well. That wasn’t really surprising, was it?

Part of Jon felt almost relieved at the half-confession that probably counted as a full one, though he selfishly wished that Martin would ask him to  _ say _ the words outright. Make them real, in a way. Then again, that was rather easy in theory, but he’d never truly want to utter those words aloud. Not when Martin had shown so clearly the way  _ he _ felt.

He might not be able to keep his thoughts to himself, his mouth running faster than his brain until he was left with nothing but a hammering heart and an even bigger wall between the two of them, but he would try to be respectful of Martin’ wishes - even if those were to stay as far away from him as possible. 

Jon’s bravery may have been nonexistent. 

His stubbornness was legendary though, and in the end he knew it’d be able to quiet his aching love into a faint whisper - something small and left unsaid, that unless poked at directly would simply simmer in silence.

He could come to terms with that, after all: he’d spent the last years trying to accept the fact that he would probably never get to grow old; knowing he would do that, at the price of an unrequited love, was acceptable.

Turning off the stove, he dished out two portions of curry, laying the chicken and vegetables over the rice. Leaving them on the table, steaming as they were, Jon went to look for Martin in the bedroom.

They could act like almost strangers, but he’d still make sure he got something warm to eat.

“Martin?” He called out before knocking softly on the door. “Lunch is ready.”

He came out soon after, hair in disarray as if he’d been running his hands through it. Without a word, he walked to the kitchen again, turning to give Jon a pointed look that said  _ ‘Are you going to stand there and stare or come along?’ _

“This smells delicious,” Martin said, as if he hadn’t been in the same room up until ten minutes before. 

“Next time we can leave it to simmer for a couple of hours - the spice really jumps out that way.”

“Sure.”

Sitting down, they began eating in silence, with only the casual clang of cutlery against ceramic breaking the growing tension. The food tasted of ash in Jon’s mouth, each morsel dragging against his tongue and palate. It was good, he’d gotten the spices right and the chicken was tender - yet as he swallowed, he felt like he was working his way through a plate of sawdust.

“Jon.”

He took a sip of water, eyes trained on a spot on the tablecloth. Dark red, faded, probably wine- he’d need to get it out with vinegar, his grandmother used to mix it with water to clean stubborn stains-

“Jon. Look at me, please?”

Martin looked  _ unwell _ . Teeth clenched, skin covered in the faintest sheen of sweat, cheeks ashen. His eyes though, those were set on him with thunderous certainty. Like seeing a bolt of lightning strike the ground, he was bound to his place and unable to move away from his gaze. Was this how statement givers felt, he wondered, when he would set his own pair of eyes, backed by Beholding all around him, on them?

He nodded for him to continue, the staring threatening to overwhelm both of them.

“Jon.”

Yes, they had gotten past that,  _ Jon _ was his name-

“Jon, I think I’d like to learn how to cook.”


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay, I had some Seriously Chaotic Days but I'm back now! It's a slightly shorter chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!  
> Content Warnings: Food Used As A Metaphor (Cont.)  
> By the way, in case you want to contact me/watch my slow descent into madness in real time, here's my [tumblr](https://simpsforsims.tumblr.com/) (and my [personal one](https://eliasbouchass.tumblr.com/) as well)

When Jon was thirteen, Bournemouth had been struck by a small earthquake. 

It had been a surprisingly tame February morning, the sun peeking out from the blanket of pasty grey clouds, so he’d walked to school rather than taking his usual bus. During his lunch break he’d nicked a book from the library before heading outside, avoiding most of his classmates as usual.

When the earthquake had hit - faint, he _knew_ that, he knew it represented no real danger to anything or anyone, that the worst damage would probably be some fallen plaster - he’d frozen in place, his _Aeropagitica_ falling to the ground with the smallest _thud_.

Almost twenty years later, he felt very much the same, like the very earth had shaken beneath him, leaving him clinging with desperation at his seat.

He kept staring at Martin, mouth agape - he probably looked like a codfish - and eyebrows comically raised. He tried schooling his expression into something more dignified, to no avail.

“Y-You mean- as in cooking or- well, y’know, _cooking_?” Jon couldn’t help his sputtering, though he hoped it wouldn’t look as pathetic as it felt.

Had Martin been any more cruel, he would have burst out laughing at this display. But regardless of how poxy a job he’d been doing of showing it lately, he was _not_ a cruel man.

“Not. Not right _now_ and not- all at once. Just. Maybe. Someday. In the future- If you were still up to it, that is, I wouldn’t mind it.” He took a deep breath, as if to ground himself. “I’ve been thinking- and it might be something that I’d be okay with trying. With you. Cooking, I mean. As you put it, I think I’m willing to learn, if you’ll want to work with me. Like- the food and the cook need to cooperate, right? Something like that I suppose. If you don’t mind waiting. ’Cause it wouldn’t be right away.” 

Jon had started nodding before Martin had even finished his clipped speech.

“I can wait. And- I’d love to.”

“Even if- it doesn’t work out? If I end up being a terrible cook?”

Jon ached to take one of Martin’s hands in his own, big and soft and calloused - had he ever played guitar? - but he limited himself to a soft look, a brush of his fingertips against Martin’s. 

“Even if it doesn’t work out. I can cook for both of us, you don’t have to worry.” A horrifying thought hit him, and he scrambled for words. “But- don’t feel like you have to do this _for_ me, I don’t- if it’s something you’re doing just to be _nice_ or polite-”

Martin burst out laughing.

It was so sudden, so out of place, that Jon could only stare at him blankly, waiting for the laughing fit to pass. He went over his words, trying to find something that could have caused such a reaction. 

“Sorry, sorry I-” He was still giggling, having moved his chair a few inches back so that he could have space to bend down and bring his arms around his middle, looking so very _Martin_ for a moment that it hurt to watch. “God, this is so _stupid_ , I don’t even know why I’m laughing. It’s not funny, it’s not funny at all.”

Jon offered a raised eyebrow in response, still dumbfounded. Was he supposed to be laughing as well? Over _what_?

“Oh shit, okay I’m-” The giggles were dying down, and Martin glanced at him, face red. “No, alright, I’m good now. Sorry about that, this is just- a tad surreal, you know?”

Jon didn’t, in fact, know.

“Yes,” he replied.

“And - just so we’re a hundred percent clear on this - I’m not doing this out of pity or- or _politeness_ , Jon. For God’s sake, I have been everything but nice these last few days, why would I suddenly be so accommodating out of nowhere?”

“I just-”

“Yeah, I know. No trace of self-worth between the two of us, and yet we’re both two of the biggest dickheads I know.”

Jon scoffed at that, visibly offended.

“Yes, if you must be so _picturesque_ about it-”

“See what I mean?”

Jon scoffed again, meeting Martin’s eyes for a second before letting out a chuckle.

Alright, it _was_ a bit ridiculous. Both of them were.

He felt fatigue settling heavier over his chest, and found the sentiment mirrored in Martin’s hunched shoulders.

After months of loneliness and fear, these last few days had taken a lot out of them both.

Perhaps- perhaps cooking asked for the right time, after all. Perhaps they could work with ready-made meals for a while, until they actually had the energy to focus on making lunch from scratch.

 _Martin’s right_ , Jon thought. _These metaphors are exhausting._

Picking up their empty plates, Jon made his way to the sink, relishing in the momentary loss of eye contact. Incredible how draining intimacy could be.

“And it’s not that I think we’re just a pair of arseholes, but-” Martin sighed, at a loss for what to say. 

Jon knew he couldn’t quite pride himself on being able to tell his every emotion from the quirk of a lip, or the nervous hue to his fidgeting, but they _had_ been working side by side for years - just enough for him to know when Martin was about to become overwhelmed.

It was written all over the tension in his jaw, really, and the way his shoulders were drawn tightly inwards. The way he scratched at the skin of his elbow, no matter how many layers he was wearing, had caused Jon to suddenly fall even harder for the man. How he’d turn his nose absent-mindedly, as well.

So Jon could tell that he needed words, and luckily for him, he just had enough of those.

“But we kind of are, and this conversation has been taxing enough?” Jon finished for him, relieved as he saw him nod. “Alright then. We can- pick up where we left off when we’re ready.”

Martin smiled at him - genuine and honest, the fog never quite leaving him but rather huddling around his shape, ever-present as the tingling of Beholding - and Jon couldn’t keep his own smile from getting wider.

Progress.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and tell me what you think!


End file.
